


Long Away

by keiwritesthings



Series: Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll [6]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Dreams, Feelings, Gen, OR IS IT, death mention, fever dreams to be exact, illness but not a big one just the flu lol, she's a bit angsty gyals, she's soft, sorry (I'm not)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 08:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiwritesthings/pseuds/keiwritesthings
Summary: You seem to be coming down with the flu, so Brian and Roger put you to bed, where you have the strangest dream... if only you could remember it...





	Long Away

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

That was a big, fat lie. Shamefully so. You’d spent most of the day either shivering or sweating, trying to hide just how awful you actually felt, despite the fact that Roger and Brian could already read you like a book. During soundcheck, the whole stage had seemed to shift beneath your feet, like you were wading through treacle and your legs were made of jelly, and you’re almost certain you passed out for a second when you tried to stand up too fast after Brian’s solo - but then again, you're not very certain of anything at the moment.

It had started yesterday, with a horrible, stuffy sort of feeling building up in your head and making your mind a little cloudy, followed by your throat suddenly feeling like sandpaper. You’d taken some medicine thrust into your hands by a techie, and that was enough to cover it up - but since then it had only gotten worse, and now you felt like your entire body was weighed down, underwater, your joints and muscles screaming in pain with every movement.

_“B.”_

You cringe at the sound of Roger’s voice taking on a different intonation - one of those _Dad_ tones that he managed to bring out every time you did something silly or dangerous, and you flinch at it, the noise hurting your ears. You look up from your spot on one of the amps, noodling around on your bass, to see Roger and Brian stood in front of you, all raised eyebrows and disbelieving looks. _God_, could they see through you that easily? _This was ridiculous. _

“What makes you say that?” You protest, only for your body to jerk with a sneeze, coughing into the tissue that Brian quickly thrusts into your hand. There’s a rustle, and you see him trying to quickly stuff a packet of tissues into his pocket, before you notice. _So, he came prepared._ It seems that nothing you could ever say would make them believe that you were fine - _and yet, you still tried. _

“You sneeze like a kitten.” Roger points out, and you scowl, fully aware that you probably look like a petulant child, with your nose flushed red and raw from scrubbing at it all day. You sniff.

“I’m perfectly healthy.”

You don’t react fast enough to defend yourself against Roger, who lunges forward to press the back of his hand to your clammy forehead, watching you try to suppress the chill that rushes through you. “You’re burning up.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you bloody well are!”

“I’m not-!”

“Oh, God, please don’t start bickering again.” Brian interrupts before you and Roger can launch into one of your infamous squabbles, running a hand over his face, and Roger tuts in response, rolling his eyes. “B, you’re clearly sick - you’re shivering for Pete’s sake.”

He’s right - you hadn’t noticed how much you were trembling, goosebumps prickling along the flesh of your forearms, and you run your hands over your skin, trying not to wince at how much your body hurt. There was no point in protesting, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try.

“I’m _fine_. What time do we go on?” You try to fight your brain into thinking more cohesively, but it seems that your fever is getting to you, because you’re not entirely sure what’s going on anymore. Instantly, Brian and Roger look horrified, and you furrow your eyebrows. “What?”

“You literally _just_ asked us that. Like, a second ago.”

You have no memory of the incident, so you opt to frown, rather deeply and disapprovingly. “No, I didn’t.”

Another shiver runs up your back, and Roger folds his arms, looking unimpressed, and you practically wilt with sheepishness, slumping over.

“B, what day is it?” He asks, and you realise that you’re not quite sure, so you shrug nonchalantly, barely having the energy to move with any more conviction. You’re on the edge of tipping to the side off of the amp, falling to the floor like a rag-doll, and staying there - discarded - until your head clears up again.

“But I never know what day it is!” You whine, but Brian chips in, while Roger is staring at you pointedly. You make the decision to stare back at him, unblinking, as best you can, but for some reason, there appears to be two of him. _And he’s all blurry-_

“Where are we, then?” Brian asks, and you break your eye contact with Roger, shifting your gaze over to his smudged silhouette. Everything seems to be moving a little sluggishly, especially your own body, which drags behind your brain, digging its heels in.

“A... room?” You offer as an answer, and Roger huffs, exasperatedly launching his hands into the air.

“That’s it, you’re going to bed-“

“No!” You protest instantly, frowning as deeply as you can, almost matching his scowl. You’re starting to understand all of the jokes you see on the internet now, about the resemblances between your metaphorical fathers and you; although it might have been that you were just picking up on some of their habits. You’d started worrying at your lip when concentrating in the same way that Brian did, letting your voice play on the side of softness like Roger’s did, when he was in one of his more composed moods - which wasn’t very often.

“Just let me play this show tomorrow, it’s the new setlist and I’ve been practising for ages!”

You don’t think you’d ever been so excited in your life, when Brian and Roger texted you the new setlist, hastily scribbled on the back of a receipt, before being photographed and sent off to you. You’d almost screamed, practically vibrating with each addition you read, especially at seeing ‘_B - Best Friend_’ written in Roger’s looping scrawl, still lovingly slotted after ‘_Love of My Life_’. You couldn’t be happier with them, especially with some of the old ones like ‘_Keep Yourself Alive_’ and ‘_Lap of the Gods_’ - although, you had panicked for a moment when reading the latter, thinking Roger was going to coax you into attempting the falsettos, until you saw the ‘_...Revisited_’ next to it, and underlined twice.

Immediately, you’d gone to your bass to wrestle ‘_Dragon Attack_’ into submission, as well as make sure that the double bass you’d adopted into your arsenal was still allowed to join the tour. It wasn’t a particularly fancy instrument, but it had been polished to a lovely, rich lustre and had already gotten the letter ‘b’ carved into it - not only was the double bass (lovingly dubbed ‘Elvis’) allowed to continue it’s tender on tour, but it was now allowed downstage for the ‘_39_’ segment, alongside Brian, Roger, and the vocalist. The tour crew often begrudgingly asked why you couldn’t just use a fretless bass as John did for certain songs, but something told you that Freddie would appreciate the dramatics of it all.

And the new set was absolutely _gorgeous_; you’d spent half the damn day looking at it lovingly, or sprawled out on the steps. There were lasers and screens and lights galore, and hopefully, all of them would be correctly assembled - you were a little more wary of that now; after all, you had a long, pink scar spanning your forearm to remind you to double-check everything. People had posted comparison pictures of you and John for weeks, each of the pictures showing the two of you with matching, cotton triangle slings, side-by-side in a tweet with a funny caption. You’d been relatively amused by them, and briefly wondered if John had seen any, before reminding yourself to get on with your day. (_Thinking of John nowadays filled you with this far-away, indescribable emotion - something akin to missing him, you supposed._) Brian and Roger had also made sure that all scaffolding was as far away from the stage as it could be, and securely tied down; looking very stern and serious while they did so. You certainly appreciated it, you didn’t really like to stand by the scaffolding anymore - in fact, you avoided it like the plague, just scurrying past it as fast as you could to get through the wings and onto the stage.

The _stage_. _Oh_, the stage was beautiful. You’d yet to have seen it in its full glory, but the glimpses you’d had so far had nearly brought you to tears. There was something so incredibly breathtaking about Brian being surrounded by stars and planets and projections as he played his solo, fingers fluttering along the strings of the Red Special like moths. Roger was stationed splendidly behind his drums, resplendent among shining cymbals, and great big toms, and the like - thanks to your streak of clumsiness, you’d rarely been allowed behind it other than to pass him bottles of water during the show, but he’d started teaching you simple drumbeats during downtime. It appeared that the tour crew had been kind enough to bring you further downstage too, placing you closer to the crowd during bass-heavy songs like ‘_Bites the Dust_’ and ‘_Dragon Attack_’, and even on the very edge of the stage with Brian and Roger for a brief moment, when performing ‘_Under Pressure_’. The grand piano had been moved too, and that morning, you’d subjected the sound crew to listening to you clumsily rattle through ‘_Bohemian Rhapsody_’, seeing as you’d taken to learning it - it hadn’t gone very well. You and Brian had also already concocted a stupid dance for ‘_Tie Your Mother Down_’, born from a few too many late nights in rehearsal, walking around with synchronised, over-exaggerated steps to the beat of the song - and you’d even sheepishly requested for a bowl of peanuts to be placed on your amp that night, so you could pelt them at Brian during the ‘_Brighton Rock_’ solo; just for old time’s sake.

You come out of your trance to see that Roger had launched into an expletive-filled rant during your mental departure - and you, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, decided to simply pretend that you’d been listening the whole time. You could barely even process what he was saying now, your mind choosing to occupy itself with the shivers that had just started to wrack through you.

“_Ergo_,” Roger seems to be placing an extraordinary amount of stress on any word that he fancies, resulting in a jumbled mess of sounds that didn’t really make any sense. He didn’t usually say things like ‘_ergo_’, either. “We should go to a GP, or something.”

Your face drops, and your heart skips a beat in your chest, throwing itself against your ribcage. Brian doesn’t seem to notice, focusing himself on calming Roger’s outburst. “Do they have GPs in Switzerland?”

_Oh, so you were in Switzerland. _

“_For God’s-_ You know what I fucking mean, Brian! _A doctor!_” He’s huffing and puffing now, clearly worked up, and your fever-addled mind feels like it’s been overloaded with too many thoughts and commands. At the moment, it’s struggling to even keep you at the right temperature.

“‘M cold.” You hear your voice say, yet your body is covered in a light, sticky sheen of sweat, running at a much, much higher heat than it should be. Things start to make a little less sense, because then Roger is fussing over you, trying to coerce you into making eye contact, while his fingers carefully prod and poke at your neck and jaw, feeling for any swelling. Your eyes seem to burn every time you blink, and being around the stage lights is making your head spin - even Roger’s touch sets your skin alight with pain, despite the fact you _know_ he's being as gentle as possible.

“Don’t worry, B, we’ll take care of you.” Brian soothes, seemingly trying to calm both you, _and_ Roger, who is now at full throttle, whirling around to look at Brian with his eyes wide.

“What if it’s something serious, or-“

“Rog, you have to calm down.”

“What if they need to go to the hospital, and we’re sat here like a bunch of bastards-“

Something finally connects in your mind because you interrupt him, gripping onto the edge of the amp so hard that your knuckles were white, your eyes screwed closed. “_No hospitals._ Not after last time.”

Even the idea of a hospital made you feel sick now, your stomach swooping with the dizziness that came with waking up from an anaesthetic-induced darkness, barely remembering where you were and how you got there. _Blood-stained gauzes. Sweat-soaked sheets. A row of numbed stitches with no idea of when they were put there. _

“You’ve had five kids, you know what the flu looks like, Rog.”

“Yeah, but we both saw how bad it got with...” Roger cuts himself off, eyeing you, and suddenly, the air is a lot heavier, crushing you under its near three-decade-long grievance. There’s something painful in the way that his silence says so much; things that don’t need to be said to be known, and things that would clearly rather not be brought up. You’d never thought about the impact_ it_ had had on little things, though, and you didn’t realise that maybe the flu would just get that little bit scarier. Roger lowers his voice to a soft murmur, and Brian places a hand on his back, patting him reassuringly. “I’d just feel better knowing, that’s all.”

Brian is quiet for a moment, mulling it over, before he offers you his crooked elbow, bowing lightly. “Care to join us on a walk, B?”

You really do _not_ feel like a walk, but you take his arm anyway, looping it with your own so Brian can hoist you to your feet, which seem practically miles below you at this point. Your brain swims with vertigo, and before you can stumble, Roger is holding you up from the other side, _thank God. _

They drag you back to the hotel room this way, pinioned between the two of them to keep you upright, even though your head is lolling about uselessly on your shoulders. They even manage to fish your keycard out of your jacket pocket and deposit you on your bed, where you sink into the plushy covers without bothering to get under them.

“Why are we here?” You mumble into the pillow, muffled by the sheets and your lips’ own reluctance to move. Roger tries to tug the sheets out from under you so he can tuck you into bed properly, but you whine pitifully until he stops, and moves on to tugging your slippers off of your feet.

“It’s nap time. You’re having a nap.” Brian answered, and you were finally starting to see why fans had been insistent on editing your Wikipedia page to list you as Brian and Roger’s adopted child - something that you had found utterly hilarious.

“Okay, _dad_.” You quip sarcastically, not having enough energy to roll your eyes at them.

“What?”

You flush sheepishly, burying your face into the pillow. “Nothing.”

God, if you knew you were going to be put to bed by your rockstar friends, you would have tidied up before-hand. There were all sorts of trinkets and projects splayed out over the carpeted floor of your hotel room; such as an adaptation of John’s ‘_It’s a Hard Life_’ costume draped over the back of a chair to wear that night, as well as a pink shirt and a set of paints set out on the table, where you’d been meticulously painting a replica of John’s ‘_Live Aid_’ shirt for the anniversary concert. Roger straightened up the small tubs of paint you’d been using with a smile, before picking up the glass you’d been using to wash your brushes to go and empty out the water. Brian had almost immediately been hit in the face with the plastic Freddie figurine that Roger had gotten you a few weeks ago, which you had taken to putting in bizarre places and documenting his adventures on your Instagram story. At the moment, ‘_Pocket Freddie_’ was dangling from your ceiling fan, knotted up in one of Brian’s ties that you’d managed to purloin, like some sort of daredevil plastic abseiler, the buckles on his canary yellow jacket moulded to look like they were flapping in an imaginary wind. Brian remembered seeing this on your story this morning, a video of the fan being switched on, with Freddie whizzing around in the air in erratic circles and a caption he didn’t quite understand - _something about a vine and a potato?_ He manages to untangle Freddie (giving a whole new meaning to ‘_I Want To Break Free_’) and pockets his tie again, wondering how you’d gotten your hands on it; it was one of his favourites, a Christmas gift from you, patterned with little tiny astronauts.

“Can we play ‘_Scrabble_’?” You ask reaching for your phone on the bedside cabinet, before Brian shifts it out of your grasp, plugging in the charging cord for good measure. You’d only recently gotten the hang of ‘_Scrabble_’, having coerced Brian and Roger into downloading the official app instead of lugging around a game set to every city they went to. That being said, you were still horrible at it, even despite the extra practice - it was _shameful_ how awful you were.

“_No_, it’s nap time.” Brian insists, and you huff indignantly, groaning. Roger appears (_when did he leave?_) with a bottle of water and two tablets, which he places on the nightstand, before attempting to haul you upright into a sitting position.

“Can you put that show on, then? The one with you guys and Michael Sheen and ‘_Doctor Who_’?” You mumble - though you already know what the answer will be - before you’re finally pulled up enough that you’re vertical, your head limp on your neck. Roger curls a finger and props it under your chin, tipping it upwards until you were looking at him, where he stuck his tongue out at you, crossing his eyes playfully. You snicker.

“Come on, up. Take these before you fall asleep.” He prompts you, uncurling your clenched fingers before pressing the pills into your hot palm. You shake your head loosely, like your limbs are made of rubber, and hold the pills out to Roger.

“I don’t do drugs.”

“B, it’s fucking ‘_Cold & Flu_’, get it down you.” He tuts, unscrewing the bottle of water and handing that to you as well. You’re too dizzy to put up a fight, so you just take the pills, watching Brian attempt to tidy up. “At least I think it is, it’s in bloody French.”

“Are you hungry? Can we get you anything?” Brian asks, and you set the water down again, gripping onto the sheets to keep yourself upright.

“No- Where’s... Where’s Pierre?” You couldn’t, for the life of you, remember where your ruddy cat was. You’d started to miss him; usually, he was trotting around after you or sprawling out on all of your tour notes and tab sheets, just generally getting in the way - not that you minded it. Brian gives you one of those funny looks that you don’t quite understand._ Again. _

“We’re in Montreaux, B.”

“_What the fuck?_” You want to argue and protest, but you’re so tired that you decide against it, choosing to flop onto the bed and nestle into the plush covers instead, groaning pathetically. “Bollocks, I feel like fucking death on two legs.”

There’s something tickling against the skin of your neck, and you eventually realise that it’s Brian’s fingers, fiddling with the chain around your neck. You could feel the thimble that Roger had given you now, pressed into your jaw and warmed from the heat of your body. Brian hums lowly, barely audible. “Here, let’s get this off of you so you don’t strangle yourself-“

“No, don’t!” Instantly, you’re fighting him off as best as you can, and Brian flings his hands away before your heavily-medicated body manages to hurt him, or yourself.

The thimble was still warm in your grasp, warmer than you would have expected - unless your fever was worse than you thought. It seemed to glow with heat in your palm, but it didn’t quite burn yet, just nestled perfectly into the fleshy heel of your hand.

“Okay, okay, I won’t!” Brian soothes, not wanting to get you in a tizzy any more than you already were. He moves gently, like he would treat any other injured creature he encountered, and pets you softly, brushing hair from your temples with his fingertips. “Just be careful, hm?”

You hum back to him as an answer, too lulled into a state of catatonia by the repetitive motions of his hands to formulate a response. Brian chuckles lightly, rising from the bed and causing you to jostle lightly. Another whine comes from your throat, but it’s quickly hushed by the guitarist, who gives the thermostat on the wall a final once-over, making sure that you wouldn’t overheat, or freeze to death.

“We’ll go now, yeah, B?” Roger says, after he rustles about in his jacket and pats you on the back. You still don’t move, just utter another indecipherable noise. “You have to call us if you need anything.”

“Okay...” You eventually muster, much to Brian and Roger’s relief. Your sudden and apparent aversion to the English language had started to worry them (_“What if they’ve forgotten how to speak, Brian?” “Shush, Roger.”_) but luckily, it seemed that all was well. “Goodnight, love you!”

“Love you too, B,” Brian calls from long away, despite the fact that it’s barely midday, and you can hear the soft squeak of the door being pulled closed. “Sleep well.”

“You too!” You mumble, and you don’t even register the embarrassment of it, before you pitch over the edge, and fall into sleep.

-

You wake up in a room you don’t recognise.

It’s quite large, and grand, in a way that you aren’t used to, but very much reminds you of Queen. It’s full of all manner of lavish things, particularly sparkly knick-knacks and various crushed velvet-covered surfaces - surrounding a particularly ornate grand piano, sharply lacquered, so much so that it could probably be used as a mirror. Everything seems to be ridiculously opulent, especially the richly-coloured sofa in the corner, with flurries of embroidered roses picked out in golden thread along the corners; the whole thing was stationed near a lamp covered in those little dangly things that hung from the shade, sending flecks of aureate light scattering over the walls and ceiling like fireflies. It would have been immaculate, if not for the dust suspended in the air that seemed to infect all particularly luxurious places, illuminated in brilliant panes by the light filtering in through the windows. It seems almost achingly familiar, like you’ve been there before, and it’s wriggled it’s way deep into your heart, making a little home there, and stitching its existence into your soul. You belonged there, you were sure of it - something about it said ‘_home_’.

You, however, did not remember getting there. There was no wander up the rain-soaked pathway, under the cherry blossom tree that you couldn’t currently see, but _knew_ was there. Nor was there any winding tour through the house, avoiding the creaky floorboard on the left of the hallway, because you were worried that you would fall through. And yet, you didn’t remember learning these things either. You don’t even remember waking up; you were just, all of a sudden, standing.

The house was empty, that much was true. It felt like no one had lived there for a long time, despite the obvious evidence that someone _had. _

_So why was there a voice calling to you?_

**“Hello?” **

You jump at the sound of it, whirling around on the spot in search of the source, only to be met with empty space. Something warm strikes up in your chest like a match, but it turns out that it’s just the thimble, sitting steady on your chest - unnaturally warm. There was a window open, off to the side, but there was no spring breeze, no birdsong, no rustling leaves, or the hubbub and chatter of London. Just silence.

The voice wasn’t exactly a _voice_ either, now that you thought about it. There was no particular pitch or accent to it, so you couldn’t identify the speaker at all. It was more like a feeling, you supposed, a tone or intonation tugging at something inside your brain and being translated into words. There was no particular direction to it, it was just _there. _

“Hello.” You respond, not particularly sure what else to say. A hum comes from deep within you, the spiritual equivalent of a proverbial stroking of one’s chin in thought.

**“Where are you? Are you in the same place I am?”** The voice asks, and you turn around again, arms flapping about uselessly at your sides. It doesn’t _feel_ like there’s anyone else inside the house - it doesn’t feel like there’s anyone _outside_ it either. **“Because I’m certainly not at home.”**

“I’m not sure where I am, either. I can’t hear you- well, I can, but not properly, um-“ You nearly launch into a full-on nervous ramble, but rein it in, cutting yourself off before you got too out of control. The sunlight plays on the blinds, filling the room with a warm, dappled yellow light, and they flicker against the windows in the breeze that you can’t actually hear. “I can’t hear anything. I think I’m in a dream.”

**“I’m not sure where I am either, it just looks like a living room- _oh_, hold on, I can see a calendar here on the wall!”** The voice is quiet as they study the calendar, and the lull in noise is already making you feel uncharacteristically lonely. There isn’t anything you can see outside from this angle, just a typical English grey sky, bright and stark. **“Are you Fiona? Someone’s written Fiona here, and the letter B. Is that your last initial?”**

You frown, flicking your head around rapidly, checking for any inking of hidden cameras, or evidence that this whole thing was a prank. You nearly stick your fingers into your ears to look for an earpiece, just to see if someone is trying to take the piss out of you - one of the roadies or something.

“No, Fiona is my housemate- where did you..?” Your ears are empty, and a quick check around your collar and waistband reveals that you’re not currently miked up. _“Are you in my house?”_

**“I don’t know, I’m not sure! Um...” **There’s an edge of panic to the voice now, sending a similar bolt shooting through your body. You get the impression that they’re flapping about, trying to look for any identifying features that would strike a chord within you. There’s a jolt of excitement as they latch onto something, and it infects you too, sinking into your bones and coaxing a smile onto your face, for no particular reason. **“There’s a bass guitar in the corner, in a beautiful blue colour- and oh, _cat hair!_ There’s cat hair on the sofa! How lovely!”**

_God. That’s definitely your house. _

“Yeah, that’s Sammy - uh, the bass, not the cat.” You cringe at your wording, but the voice doesn’t seem to mind, and you suspect that they’re now searching for any other hint of a cat, but you doubt that he’ll be there; if there are no birds in whatever strange dream-reality that you’re in, you doubt that your fat, orange cat is going to be in theirs. “The cat is called Pierre.”

**“Pierre! What a gorgeous name - very regal!”** The voice sounds incredibly enthusiastic, and there is a fizzing sensation along your nerves, crackling along your hair like static. Whoever they are, they’re excited. **“Does this mean that you’re in _my_ house?”**

Oh God, you’d forgotten about that, somehow. You look around for any particular identifying features that jump out at you, but the whole thing is so crowded and cluttered that there would have been no point. “Uh, well, it’s very yellow, and eighties-ish, and there’s a _huge_ piano-“

Your stomach swoops unexpectedly as the voice crows with triumphant laughter, the emotion of it rushing through your body like an upturned bucket of ice water.

**“Yes, yes, that must be my music room! How strange!”** They chime, and the laughter trails off into delighted chuckles, bubbling in your chest like a luxurious champagne. **“You play bass then, I presume? I’m quite fond of bassists.”**

“Uh, yeah...” You hum, a smile blooming on your lips. There was something so infectious about their joy that made you want to spill every secret you’d ever been told, and air your grievances over a shared bottle of very old and expensive wine, lounging on a very old and expensive settee. “With _Queen_, actually. The band, not Her Majesty.”

And suddenly, you’re reeling with a gasp, nearly knocked over with the wall of sheer panic and dread that hits you. It’s an awful, burning sort of feeling, coiling around your heart and wrenching the air out of your lungs like an iron-cold vice. The voice seems to be in terrible distress, and it pours into you from every direction, pushing you nearly to the edge of tears.

_**“Deaky?!”**_ The voice calls, dismayed and heartbroken and clanging along your eardrums, with the same awful sadness you feel from Brian and Roger on particularly crisp November days. Your very soul aches, and you bow your head, gritting your teeth against the panging pains your heart was suddenly afflicted with. **“Oh, _Christ_, are you dead? John!”**

“What?! No, fuck-!“ You feel like you’re choking, drowning in thick, black oil, and you’re scrambling to get to the surface again. The relief washes you away like a strong current, and you gasp for air. Only now, after that outburst, you’re not so sure that you’re _anywhere. _

**“You’re not John?”**

“Am I dead?! Did I die?! I swear I only had the flu-!” It’s not too much of a stretch to imagine that where you were was some sort of strange afterlife - after all, you still couldn’t _actually_ see the ground through the windows. If that was the case, then who was this voice? Another soul, stuck to yours for the rest of eternity? Your tormentor? _Your guardian angel?_

**“Are you John Deacon, or not?!”**

_“No!”_

_God, you’re not ready to die; you don’t want to, fuckfuckfuck-_

**“Then for goodness sake, stop fretting! It’s giving me the _worst_ headache!”** The voice snaps, practically shaking the walls with the shrillness of it all. You scowl at no one in particular. **“I feel like I’m going to be _sick!_”**

You’re practically fuming now, and you can’t help but feel that this whole thing was a bit of a train wreck. “Says you! Am I fucking dead, or not?!”

**“Oh, calm down; it’s probably just a fever dream!”** They reprimand you, vaguely reminiscent of a father with a difficult child, and you huff, rolling your eyes. **“Don’t roll your eyes at me - I can tell you’re doing it!”**

_Jesus Christ, this is ridiculous. _

“Doesn’t explain why you’re here.” You answer, trying not to be too emotional - which, being tired and ill, was rather like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. “Are you sick too?”

The voice clams up, and you feel it in the room too - the colour dulls a little; the flowers droop in their vases; and there’s a vague, hospital-ish smell forming down the hall, drifting in through the open door - like sterilising alcohol and cleaning solutions and medicine.

**“No. At least, not any more.”** Is all that they say, taking careful consideration to not reveal anything to you. You decide to not poke around in their business.

“Well, are you just a hallucination then?”

That did it - now the flowers are back in full, vibrant bloom, and the window slams itself open, the breeze carrying the curtains towards you like long, pulling fingers.

_ **“I bloody well hope not!”** _

You can’t stop the laugh that escapes you, at their scandalised tone, and the voice follows in quick succession, until the two of you are doubled over, gasping for breath. The noise peters away, and there’s silence for a little while.

You’d never felt such grief, before; when the voice got into such a panic over the former bassist. It was heavy and pressing, like it had been building up for centuries and now the damn was breaking loose. You still had the urge to cry, and you nearly gave in to the temptation to slump down on the floor and hide away from it all until you woke up, or someone came to get you, or _anything. _

But no one came. So instead, _you asked. _

“Why did you get so upset about John?”

**“Hm? What do you mean?”** The voice feigns an air of nonchalance, but you feel the pain in your chest again, spreading like ice on a windowpane. The sensation fills you gradually, crystallising in your veins until you feel like your heartbeat stops entirely - dead, still, and cold.

“You got sad. I felt it.” The simplicity of your words seems ridiculous and asinine, but it’s all you can manage at the moment. The voice isn’t even _there_ with you, yet you’re shuffling uncomfortably under its pressure, choosing to fidget with the seam of your shirt and avoid eye-contact with a person who wasn’t currently corporeal. “Did you know him?”

“**That’s not important.**” They say, but you can tell that it very much is; you don’t know why they’re even bothering to lie, when you’re there, feeling everything that they feel. They inject themselves with a bit more joy, perking up and trying to lighten their tone - distract you. “**What’s important is that I know who _you_ are!**”

“What?” You frown and squirm in place a little, still freaked out about how this whole thing was even happening. They were quite triumphant about the whole thing, their vibrancy and confidence leaking into your body in drips and drabs.

**“The bassist. B! That’s you, isn’t it? Like on the calendar?”**

“Oh.” You thought they were going to say something more personal, but that seemed more logical. Yet, you weren’t quite sure why you were so disappointed - you’d never met this person before, but you already wanted their approval. “That’s me.”

Sinking to the floor, you spread yourself out on the thick, plush carpet. From this angle, you can see hints of cat hair and scratches against the legs of the piano, and the sofa. There’s a box on the floor, beneath the piano too, stuffed full of fat notebooks and loose sheets of music and textbooks of classical pieces that you can’t quite make out the names of. The voice is humming slightly, their voice lilting musically as they find themselves quite pleased.

**“Ah, yes, the boys seem to quite like you.”**

“The boys?”

**“Well, Brian and Roger."**

“They’re hardly _boys_ anymore...” Your reply is quick, before your voice trails off slightly. They didn’t just know Queen, they _knew_ them. Knew them well. Personally enough, even, to know Roger and Brian’s thoughts on you. “You used to know Bri and Rog?”

The crushing feeling comes back, full swing, but you get the feeling that the voice is bearing most of the weight for you, trying to remain upbeat and chipper. _It’s not working very well. _

**“Used to?”** They falter, their voice cracking slightly, before they clear their throat. They’re trying to flush the bad feelings out, you can tell, but it sticks to you, thick and claggy, and clogs up your pores like glue. There’s a slight breath, which fills your own lungs, before spilling out of them, without any real sensation attached. **“Yeah... used to.”**

“Oh! Like a groupie?” The voice cackles in response before you even finish the question, and you frown confusedly, prompting them to laugh even more. “What?! Why are you laughing?!”

“**Nothing! Nothing!**” The voice wheezes through tears, and you’re too busy scowling to succumb to the fluttering feeling of amusement in your chest. The voice seems incredibly tickled, but you’re set on the pursuit of knowledge, it seems. “_**A groupie! Ha!**_”

_God, you’re becoming more like Brian by the day. _

Wait. That wasn’t you thinking that, was it? That was them. _The voice. _

**“You’re so confused, oh, dear me-!”**

“You’re a fan, then?” You try to speak over their giggling, which they finally manage to get under control, and you get the feeling that they’re wiping away bittersweet tears. Yes, they’re laughing, but there’s something so _sad_ beneath the surface.

**“Something of the sort, I suppose.”** They reply, evidently trying to be chipper, before they soften, like a teacake, into something more genuine. Their tone matches the room now, plush and warm and comforting like the velvet sofa. **“I love them very much, I’m afraid.”**

You fall into comfortable silence, deciding to sit on the sofa and sink into the cushions, scented with something that reminds you of _home_\- the home that continued to be stage wings, and equipment cases and throat lozenges.

“Me too.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, behind the thimble, and you know that the voice is smiling, wherever they are.

“**And I’m quite fond of _you_, as well! I love the double bass on-stage, brilliant idea - and an excellent taste in jewellery!**” They laugh again, and suddenly you’re energised, completely pleased with yourself, and a trifle smug. You knew people would like it, especially-

A name nearly came to your tongue, but fizzled away before you could say it. Something else needled at the back of your mind, flooding you with this sense of familiarity. _You knew who this person was. _

“...Do I know you?” You ask tentatively, and everything shuts up tight again, the voice closing themselves off with locks and latches and walls.

“**It doesn’t matter.**” They dismiss you flippantly, but there’s _something _glimmering beneath the surface, that quickly overwhelms them and takes over. They try to hide it, but it all comes tumbling out, along with a deep sadness that cleaves you down the middle, like a ravine.

“**I miss them. _So much_.**”

“_You miss them?_ What do you mean?” There’s a soft panic coming in waves now, lapping against your toes like sea-water and starting to freeze you solid, salt crystallising in your veins with the uncomfortable prickling sensation that comes with the unknown. The voice is slowly losing control now, as they’re becoming careless and unrestrained.

“**Nothing! Don’t dwell on it, dear!**”

Something stabs at your chest. _Dear. _

Who’s calling you ‘dear’? Who is it? Who are you talking to? _Who? Who? Who?_

“**Shit, I was hoping I would go a little further without cocking up.**” They hiss, cursing under their breath, and the windows fly open, sending the curtains into a frenzied waltz with the wind. It was starting to pick up now, too, forcing itself into the room in violent gusts, shoving you back against the wall. “**I suppose I’ve given myself away, now.**”

You realise that there’s been something weighing you down the whole time, tied around your neck and anchoring you to the spot - the thimble seems to thrum against your chest, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“What do you mean?” Fear bubbles in you, and the things around you start to gain sound; the vases rattle and slosh on the sideboards, the wind howls at the trembling windowpanes, and there’s a steady, groaning rumble rising from beneath your feet. “What’s happening? _Who are you?_”

There were no trees outside, and no cobblestone path. No grass, no London. _Nothing_. You could barely look at it.

“**Don’t be scared, you’re just waking up, I think.**” The voice reassures you from far away - miles and miles - and you’re so frozen that you can barely form an answer, grimacing to yourself. The voice prods at you, warm and compassionate and genuine. _They’re worried about you_.“**Yes? You understand?**”

Instead, you shriek as the wind picks up, and the buzzing in your ears gets louder; you jam your hands over them to try and block the noise out, but it’s still there, always there. A floorboard is ripped from its home in the corner, and there’s nothing but stark, glaring nothingness beneath. You scream, and it’s lost.

“**_Please_, answer me, Y/N.**” They’re desperately trying to comfort you, and it works a little, although you’ve got tears rolling down your cheeks with no reason as to why.

_You get it, now._ This place is so full of love, and so are they - it seeps from every flake of paint and crack in the brickwork. _Pure, unadulterated love_, in heaps and more. You trust the voice, it seems, with everything you are.

“Yes.” You shout over the cacophony of noises that you’re drowning in, and they smile, you can feel it. Beautiful, and brilliant, and _yellow like the sun_. Their voice cracks, like an old phone losing signal, but they’re upset too, rolled up in something painful and bittersweet.

**“I hope we meet again, darling.” **

_Darling. _

The wind reaches an almighty crescendo, a choir of operatic harmonies, and then - _time stops. _

_No. _

“Oh, God, wait-“ You choke on your words, and the tears smeared all over your face - and you can’t bring yourself to say their name because that would just make it all too _real_. Everything seemed to be crumbling away, floorboard by floorboard, petal by petal. Their presence was getting further away by the second, getting fainter, despite how tightly you were clinging to it. “No, no, _no, wait-!_”

Then, a voice in the darkness - as loud as physically possible - _and you aren't quite sure who it came from. _

**“I still love you!” **

-

You wake up in a room you _do_ recognise, wrapped in a warm sensation - like a hug - with the voice a long, _long _way behind you.

They seemed to have taken the heaviness of sickness with them, as you feel better than you have in days, and the thimble bumps solid and cool against your now appropriately-warmed skin. The hotel room hasn’t changed much in the transition from day to night, though a glance at the clock shows that you’d been knocked out for the rest of the day, and that the darkness existing beyond the window and the curtains belong to the quiet, lonesome hours of midnight.

You’re groggy and disoriented, and the warmth of sleep is quickly fading, but you’re feeling better. Completely fine, when you examine yourself in more detail. What had you even been dreaming about? You can't quite remember, all that's been left with you is a burning feeling under your skin, crawling with the idea of being still and not walking, walking west. _Why west?_

_Get up. Get out. _

You tug on a pair of your stage boots, a stark contrast to the sweatpants and comfy tour hoodie you’d been living in since that morning (pyjamas at rehearsal was not out of the ordinary), and you barely remember to lace them up and grab your room key before you’re stumbling out of the doorway, jamming your hands into your pockets.

The night air is brisk, cold and bracing, but you soldier on, hunched against the biting winds with nothing more than a direction that you had decided to head in. You didn’t have the foggiest idea as to where you were going, or why, just that you needed to get there _now. _

You turn a corner, and you’re reminded of where you are - because _holy shit, you’re in Montreux_. There’s the vast expanse of water that is Lake Geneva, and there - there it is. There _he_ is. 

The statue. Timeless and electrifying, caught in a non-existent wind with one fist held high in the air for everyone to see. That symbol of power that he held over the audience. No backing down, that hand said - _never_. It said _love_.

He was so far away, like he was miles above you, scraping the sky and the stars and the thick layer of clouds over Montreux. You practically sprint the last few steps, your breath stolen away into the night, to look up at the man you never met, and the various yellow flowers laid out around his feet and balanced in the crook of his arm and tied to his mic stand. And you say what you’d been so afraid to say to the voice that you barely remember.

You say his _name_.

“Freddie.”

-

Someone was pounding on Roger’s door, and he was not happy about it. He’d already been having a bad enough nights sleep, tossing and turning the whole time and drifting in and out of consciousness. Too hot, then too cold - then too pissed off to sleep altogether.

The knocking again. It was driving him around the twist.

“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.” He muttered to himself as he managed to get himself out of bed and jam his feet into slippers - battered old things given to him many Father’s Days ago by his kids when they were younger.

Brian was on the other side of the door, also in his pyjamas, and Roger nearly said ‘_fuck off_’ to him by reflex, only to catch himself at the sight of Brian’s ragged appearance.

“It’s one in the shitting morning, Brian, you lunatic.” He grumbles, but he doesn’t really mean it, barely giving a noise of protest when Brian grabs him by the arm and wrenches him out of his hotel room, propelling him along the corridor. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Brian doesn’t stop walking, just carries on pulling him along, shuffling in his slippers. There’s a look of quiet panic on his face that he hasn’t seen in a while, not in quite a few years, and he doesn’t provide an answer fast enough for Roger’s tastes.

_“Brian-“_

“Y/N’s gone walkabouts.”

It seems that that’s just enough to knock him into stunned silence. Not for long, though.

“Well, what’s that supposed to fucking mean?!” Roger asks, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice, and Brian almost refuses to answer, settling for a non-committal huff.

“What’s _what_ supposed to mean? They’re not in their room, and a techie saw them leave the hotel ten minutes ago.” He’s still marching ahead, though Roger seems to have decided to start walking, rather than let himself be dragged along. There’s a horrible coldness creeping into his chest as Brian stuffs him into the lift, and hits the button for the ground floor. “So, we’re looking for them.”

The lift is moving painfully slow - it feels like aeons have passed before the doors even closed. “Call them, then?”

“When have they ever answered their phone, Roger?”

“Yeah, never mind that.” He regretted saying it the minute it left his lips; something about being young in this day and age seemed to involve never answering phone calls, something his actual children were especially adept at. “Call the police?”

“No- I...” His friend trails off, a habit he’d continued to have for the last forty years whenever something was bothering him - that, and the near-constant fidgeting he’d been doing since the lift had forced him to stand still betrayed just how worried he was about you, no matter how calm he tried to appear. Only over four decades of friendship could grant Roger the ability to decipher the complexities of one Brian May.

“I think I know where they are.”

Roger barely had time to ask for clarification before the lift doors opened, and Brian was off like a shot through the hotel lobby, Roger hot on his heels in nothing but his pyjamas, slippers, and a dressing gown.

“How?”

“Just... gut feeling.”

“We can’t be going on a wild fucking goose chase at one o’clock in the morning because of a _gut feeling!_” Roger hisses, pulling the fleecy fabric tighter around himself, and stuffing his hands into his armpits to conserve heat. His slippers are almost falling off of his feet trying to keep up with Brian, and he finds himself cursing his friend’s long legs - not for the first, or last time. “Brian!_ Ring the police!_”

One o’clock in the morning in Switzerland apparently means dark skies, and an unexpected chill whipping around his ankles, though the air rests thick and heavy on his shoulders. It’s quiet, too quiet, and Brian seems to be disturbing the peace by marching ahead, his slippers scraping the pavement. It’s only when Roger catches a glimpse of Lake Geneva that he realises where Brian seems to be going.

_B. Freddie. B at the Freddie statue. _

“Brian,” Roger calls, suddenly filled with a very strange sensation that seems to clog up his throat, and he fights to swallow it down. He just feels so old and _tired_ \- too tired for _this_. “Brian, pack it in. _Don’t_. I can’t do this tonight.”

“Y/N, is that you?!” Brian’s voice, so vary rarely raised, cuts through the silence of the night, and a smudge at the base of the statue seems to move, snapping suddenly to face them. The figure stumbles a little, wrapping their arms around themselves as a particularly stubborn gust of wind rushed past, and they glance back up at the statue. Getting closer, it seems that Brian was right, and you’re standing in front of Freddie, looking lost and confused, small at the statue’s feet.

As Roger approaches you, you practically bristle with emotion, your eyes suddenly flooding with tears, reflecting starkly in the streetlights. He frowns a little, and Brian barely manages another hurried step forward before you surge forward and collide with him, nearly tackling him to the floor, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in his coat.

“Oh, _thank fuck_, B.” Roger sighs in relief, before he notices a shudder wrack through your shoulders, to which he frowns again, looking up at Brian, who seems to be wearing a similar, worried-looking expression.

“I’m sorry.” You whimper, your voice muffled by layers of fabric and wiry grey curls, and Roger’s heart aches at the sight of you gripping fistfuls of Brian’s dressing gown, your arms wrapped firmly around his middle. “I didn’t know what- I just-“

“Come on, no more crying now, yes?” Brian soothes into your hair, letting his voice lilt so softly that you only _just_ heard it, warm and comforting. His hand rubs at your back until it stops jumping with sobs, and your breathing returns to a regular pattern. “What’s happened?”

Words seem to fail you at this point, because you open your mouth, and all that comes out is an indiscernible croak - so you settle for the basics. “Just a dream.”

"A dream?"

"I don't remember it very well- I..."

You trail off and Roger arches an eyebrow, glancing at Brian. Certainly, you hadn't changed _that_ much since this morning? You'd done a complete turnabout, and the whole incident rather reminded him of another temperamental musician he knew, who used to throw tantrums of inconceivable force over the smallest things.

The moon was looking decidedly yellow tonight, nestled in amongst the stars and the clouded black sky like an eye looking down on him. Roger nearly winked back at it.

“A nightmare?” He hears his own voice ask, and you stiffen in Brian's arms, whirling around to look up at the statue. There's a glimmer of recognition on your face, quickly masked with confusion - like you're trying to remember something that happened years and years ago.

“Not at all.” You say. "The opposite."

And for some reason, you swear you can see the statue smile for a second. _You decide that you need more sleep._

**Author's Note:**

> follow my tumblr pls !! @ rhapso-kei


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